Raizada Mansion | Arnav's bedroom
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The clock ticked past 3:00 AM.
Arnav tossed again. The sheets felt too tight. The room too cold.
Then—
Darkness thickened. His eyelids shut.
And the dream pulled him in.
---
Dream .
He's standing in the Gupta Boutique.
But it's empty.
Silent.
No laughter. No color. Just scattered fabric and...
Buttons.
Hundreds of them. On the floor. Cracked, broken. One was the same one Khushi had once thrown at him.
> He bends down to pick one up—
And suddenly sees her reflection in a mirror.
But her back is to him. She's wearing red. A bridal red.
Only—she's not looking at him.
He tries to speak.
Nothing comes out.
He walks closer. The mirror flickers.
Instead of her reflection, he sees himself—blood on his shirt, pain in his eyes.
--
> "Khushi?" he calls.
She doesn't answer.
Her hand slowly pulls a red thread.
And that thread wraps around him.
Tight.
Around his wrists. His chest. His throat.
> "You're too late," she whispers.
--
Now he's on the rooftop of the boutique.
It's raining.
The diya she once lit with him is flickering... then dies.
Gone.
He drops to his knees.
> "Don't leave," he says, voice breaking.
She walks away.
No sound.
Just distance.
And he can't move.
Gasping.
He awake
Sweat on his forehead. Breathing sharp.
He sits up. Grabs the sketchbook by his bed.
And draws.
Not the boutique. Not the button.
Just her, standing on that rooftop, in red...
And his hand reaching toward her.
> "I won't be too late this time," he murmurs.
---
Boutique Backroom – The Day Before Diwali Showcase
That golden hour where things sparkle… and tempers do too.
Khushi was hunting for her gold thread spool. That's all.
Simple. Innocent. Thread.
> "It was right here, I swear—ugh, Payal probably stuffed it with the mirror-work trims again—"
She yanked open the bottom drawer in the boutique's storage chest, fully prepared to scold Payal.
What she didn't expect?
A familiar leather-bound sketchpad.
One that didn't belong to any of the boutique artists.
One she'd definitely seen tucked into a certain Raizada's laptop bag once or twice.
> "What's this doing here?"
Curiosity beat reason. She opened it.
Page 1: a half-done pencil sketch of fabric folds. Elegant.
Page 2: the temple ghat—Laxmi Nagar. Drawn from memory. From their memory.
> "He sketches places? Since when is Mr. Spreadsheet so poetic?"
Page 3: a woman. Seated in profile. Sketching something herself. Her eyes were focused. Lips pursed. Hair in a loose braid that curled like question marks.
She looked… familiar.
No.
Wait.
That was her.
> "Wait. That—can't be—"
She flipped another page.
This time the same figure. Standing. Wind in her dupatta. A tiny smear of kajal under her eye like a flaw the artist couldn't bear to erase.
But this one… this one had softer lines. Like it had been drawn slowly. Memorized.
Her stomach dropped.
Her heart did a pirouette it would never admit.
> "Why is he—why would he draw—"
And then the door creaked open.
> Arnav (casually): "You really shouldn't open other people's sketchbooks."
She turned like she'd been caught committing art theft.
> Khushi (defensive): "It was in the thread drawer! I wasn't snooping."
> Arnav (smirking): "Right. Thread-hunting with page-flipping technique."
> Khushi (snapping): "Who is this, anyway?"
Her voice was a little too sharp. Jealousy slipped out like a clumsy laddu.
He raised an eyebrow. Slowly. Dangerously.
> Arnav: "You tell me."
> Khushi: "Why would I know? Looks like someone you saw at… some mela? Or maybe some art exhibit? I don't care!"
> Arnav (stepping closer): "You don't care?"
> Khushi (backtracking): "Why would I?! I'm just—curious. Academically. About art. I love art. Great job. Very… symmetrical nose."
> Arnav (deadpan): "It's your nose."
> Khushi (freezing): "What."
He leaned in, gaze steady.
> Arnav: "And that page where she's sketching? You were drawing that weird pomegranate-printed lehenga you hate. I remember. You had ink on your cheek."
Her mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. No words.
> Arnav (lower): "You see other people in those sketches, Khushi. But I only saw you."
For a moment, silence.
Golden. Heavy.
Just the sound of the fan and the rustle of paper between them.
Then—
> Khushi (quietly): "That's stupid."
> Arnav (softly): "So am I."
He turned to go. The moment teetered on the edge of heartbreak and hope.
But just before the door, her voice followed him.
> Khushi: "You forgot page eleven."
He turned. Confused.
> Khushi (blushing furiously): "It's the one where I'm laughing. It's... not accurate. My teeth aren't that perfect."
> Arnav (smiling): "I know."
> Khushi (mumbling): "You're impossible."
> Arnav: "And you're in every sketch I don't know how to finish."
Khushi placing the sketchpad gently back in the drawer.
Then staring at the thread spool still in her hand.
> Khushi (to herself): "Stupid thread. Ruined my life."
But she was smiling.
Like a girl with a secret.
And he? Outside the door, waiting.
Like a man who knew she'd follow.
---
The Boutique
The boutique glowed like a prayer come to life.
Fairy lights crisscrossed the ceiling like constellations. Lanterns hung in uneven harmony. Rangoli unfurled across the courtyard in peacock blues and turmeric golds. Every saree, every mirror, every diya had been positioned with purpose—and possibly a few tears.
And at the eye of this swirling storm?
Khushi Kumari Gupta.
Part general, part chaos goddess, part caffeine.
She juggled tailors, models, laddoos, and a terrifying spreadsheet with the kind of war-worn precision that came only from sheer madness or love.
> Khushi (yelling into the back room): "Mohan bhaiya! Why are there sequins on the sherwanis? This isn't a sangeet in space!"
> Lavanya (stepping out dramatically): "Okay but if it was a sangeet in space, wouldn't I be stellar?"
> Payal (dragging a rack of dupattas): "Someone take her glitter away before she bedazzles the laddoos."
Ding-ling.
The door chime rang.
Not shrill. Not clumsy.
Slow. Intentional.
Like fate tapping its knuckles against wood.
And there he was.
Arnav Singh Raizada.
Wearing a black bandhgala that shimmered with such quiet elegance it should've come with a warning label. His presence turned the air electric. Girls paused. Mirrors fogged. A diya nearly tilted.
Khushi looked up. Her hands stilled.
> Khushi (trying for neutral): "You're early."
> Arnav: "You're radiant."
Pause.
> Khushi (choking slightly): "Excuse me?"
> Arnav (handing her the folder): "Guest list. Final draft."
> Khushi (distracted, still holding his gaze): "That's not what you just said."
> Arnav: "You didn't mishear me."
She snatched the folder, flipping it open for distraction.
> Khushi: "Where's Aman?"
> Arnav (sighing): "Recovering. I let him nap. He almost cried."
She snorted.
Then he pulled something from his coat pocket. A brooch.
Delicate. Gold. Tiny stars etched across its curved surface.
> Arnav: "Saw this. Thought of your midnight dupatta."
She blinked.
> Khushi (softer now): "Why?"
> Arnav: "Because you turned something broken into something beautiful. That sketch stayed with me."
She took it carefully. Held it like it might vanish.
> Khushi (murmured): "Thank you."
Their fingers brushed.
Just a whisper of contact.
But it lingered.
Then—
> Buaji (offstage): "KHUSHI BITIYA! If these jalebis escape again I'll lock them in your diary!"
> Khushi (jumping): "Coming!"
> Arnav (watching her leave): "Go. I'll... stay."
And he did.
He stood there for a minute longer. Pocketing the smile she didn't see.